Slytherin Divided
by Luckfire
Summary: A Slytherin girl turns heads, two in particular, when she takes down Draco Malfoy. Revised.


Slytherin Divided  
by Luckfire  
  
  
Ron shivered. He wished Professor Snape would invest his  
skills in heating the dungeons, but knew it was a lost  
cause. Out of the corner of his eye, Ron noticed a certain  
blond figure striding toward him. He groaned inwardly and  
braced himself for the onslaught.  
  
"Hello, Weasel," Draco Malfoy sneered. Ron flinched back  
slightly and held the table with white knuckles, his eyes  
single-mindedly glued to the blackboard.  
  
"Go away, Malfoy," Ron snapped. "Why don't you just sit with  
the rest of the scum on the Slytherin side?"  
  
"Weasley, you wouldn't know scum if you were sitting next to  
it-oh, wait, you are. Silly me," Malfoy grinned.  
  
"Oh, that was real clever, Malfoy," muttered a low voice  
from across the room, the voice's owner rolling their eyes.  
Draco spun around, annoyed.  
  
"Who said that?" he demanded, making everyone-even Professor  
Snape-turn to face him.  
  
"I did." A dark-haired, sinewy girl stood up and faced Draco  
calmly. "Why? Would you like me to repeat it?"  
  
"A Slytherin?!" Ron gaped, along with the rest of the class.  
  
"Yes," she confirmed, sauntering across the room to stand  
facing Malfoy. Her robes never touched a single desk. "How  
observant of you. And of you, Malfoy. Imagine, I've been  
here the entire year, and not once have I ever noticed who  
sits next to Ron Weasley," she drawled, her voice dripping  
with mock sincerity.  
  
Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Just who do you think you are?"  
  
The girl widened her eyes in surprise. "Don't you know me?  
No, of course you don't." She sighed, shaking her head, then  
looked him in the eye, put a friendly arm around his  
shoulders, and said: "I'm part of the 'scum,' Malfoy, my  
prejudiced lamebrain. A Mudblood. And, on behalf of everyone  
in Hogwarts who has ever dared incur the wrath of the mighty  
Draco Malfoy, I would like to bestow upon you this gift."  
  
As she spoke, she took her arm from his shoulders and  
displayed her hands, one covering the other, inviting closer  
inspection. As Draco leaned in a bit to see, her bottom hand  
clenched and flew at Draco's jaw, striking quick as  
lightning. He staggered back a step, surprise evident on his  
face but quickly overcome by anger.  
  
The girl swept back to her seat unhindered, and the  
Gryffindors burst into a loud cheer.  
  
  
  
The story spread quickly, losing nothing in the telling. By  
dinner, the mysterious Slytherin had delivered no less than  
a concussion to poor Draco, and received nothing in return.  
Only a few of those present during the actual episode  
remembered the girl's face, but the moment she entered the  
Great Hall the whisper spread like brushfire: "That's her,  
the one I told you about!"  
  
Taking no notice of the silence her presence left in its  
wake, she strode unobtrusively to the end of the Slytherin  
table and made a move to sit down. Suddenly the space was  
filled by books and an elbow. As she glanced deliberately  
down both sides of the table, every opening was instantly  
blocked. Taking the message and giving a curt nod, she  
took a plate from one of the empty places she wasn't allowed  
to sit at and secured her food. She had begun to walk out of the  
room, the eyes of the student body still on her, when a  
voice called from the Gryffindor table:  
  
"Hey, need somewhere to sit? We've got space." It was Ron  
Weasley.  
  
"Thanks, but I've still got my dignity," she replied coldly,  
and left.  
  
  
  
When the mysterious girl finally returned to the Slytherin  
common room, she drew many a cold glare merely by walking  
across the floor. But she couldn't even do that  
unhindered-not in Slytherin House.  
  
A blond boy stood in front of her, blocking her path,  
flanked by two nasty-looking thugs. "You think you're so  
smart, don't you?" Draco Malfoy sneered. "So smart I could  
puke."  
  
Frazzled, she replied confusedy, "Well, why don't you? I'm  
not stopping you. Just aim that way," the girl added,  
chucking a thumb at Pansy Parkinson. Pansy gave her a look  
to kill. "It might help her looks some." A couple of sixth-  
years snickered.  
  
Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Who do you think you are to come  
waltzing in here and start pointing fingers?"  
  
The girl's eyes suddenly lost their bewildered look and  
became chillingly opaque. "Someone who has seen your stupid,  
childish hassling of innocent kids who never did anything to  
you. I didn't just 'waltz in here and start pointing  
fingers,' as you so *cunningly* put it." With that, she  
knocked away a stunned Goyle and strode with measured paces  
to her dormitory, locking the door behind her.  
  
  
  
The Gryffindors didn't know what to make of this strange  
girl who made fools of her fellow Slytherins and then coldly  
declined solace among like-minded people.  
  
"I just don't know what to make of the whole thing." Harry  
shook his head in resignation. "There's no logic in it."  
  
"Maybe she doesn't think she needs friends," Hermione  
suggested from behind a stack of books.  
  
"I think she's nuts," Ron proclaimed, tearing his gaze away  
from the fire. "I mean, who in their right mind ticks off a  
Slytherin, let alone the whole House?"  
  
Harry smiled. "Malfoy's a Slytherin, and if he's not ticked  
off at us I don't know who is."  
  
"But that doesn't mean this girl's any less insane!" Ron  
insisted. "I mean, Malfoy's a pain, but he's nothing  
compared to having all the Slytherins on your  
case-especially if that's your House."  
  
All of a sudden, Neville Longbottom fell into the  
room-literally. Picking himself up off the floor, a blush  
starting the spread over his face, the poor accident-prone  
fifth-year asked, "Has anyone seen my invisible ink? I-I  
think I spilled some on the bottle and now I can't find it  
anywhere."  
  
Wondering how Neville had managed this, but still feeling  
sorry for him in spite of all her homework, Hermione joined  
Neville in his search. From the floor, she said, "Actually,  
it might be a totally unplanned maneuver. That Slytherin  
girl, I mean," she clarified. "After all, who knows how much  
bottled-up resentment she must've had to just explode like  
that in Potions. I wonder what was the last straw?"  
  
"I just wish I could have seen Snape's face when he tried to  
figure out where to deduct the points from!" Ron chuckled,  
eliciting smiles from everyone within hearing distance.  
  
  
  
A pale boy with bleached-blond hair and three tiny silver  
hoops in his right ear lay on the infirmary bed, out cold.  
His face held a troubled frown. A bloodstained bandage  
encircled his right shoulder. A dark-haired girl sat in the  
chair at his bedside. Her brow was creased stubbornly and  
her hands, on the arms of the chair, were white-knuckled.  
  
Madam Pomfrey's heels clicked across the floor, then halted  
abruptly as she caught sight of the girl. Her expression  
softened a little and she clicked over, laying a gentle hand  
on the girl's shoulder. She jumped and looked up, her eyes  
showing a moment of heartfelt weakness before she blinked it  
back. "It's almost dinnertime. He'll be all right until you  
get back." The girl nodded slowly and sighed.  
  
"May I eat my dinner here?" she asked hopefully, her eyes  
sliding back to the still figure on the bed.  
  
Madam Pomfrey let a sympathetic smile escape on her lips and  
said, "Yes, you may. But I don't want it to become a common  
occurance."  
  
As the healer's feet clicked back to her office door, the  
girl called softly, "Thank you." The feet paused, but the  
girl didn't look at her, and they continued.  
  
  
  
"Hey, Weasley, what are you so engrossed in the lake for?  
Hoping for it to turn into a wishing well, probably, so you  
could scrape a few Knuts from the bottom!"  
  
"Ron, no!"  
  
  
  
"Why can't you boys just shake hands and stop beating each  
other up?" Madam Pomfrey was admonishing her latest  
returning patients when the girl entered. Without a sound  
she crossed the room and took her place by the side of the  
pale boy. On the opposite side of the room, Madam Pomfrey  
continued berating her captive audience. "What is the point?  
Neither of you win and the both of you practically have  
reserved places here. I'm sure that if you put your heads  
together you could come up with an easy solution. And just  
in case you don't feel well enough for deep thought, I'll  
give you a suggestion: Lay off the punches. And if you can't  
lay off them, then at least *roll* with the punches; it'll  
keep you out of my hair longer!" Finally reaching her  
breaking point, she threw up her hands in exasperation and  
stormed off to her office.  
  
Things quieted down after that. The two chronic combatants  
did their homework while pointedly ignoring each other. The  
girl watched the still face before her, unnoticed by either of  
the patients.  
  
After an hour or so, Madam Pomfrey poked her head into the  
room and announced the end of visiting hours. The girl  
nodded and rose, causing the two invalids to look up and  
watch as she made her exit.  
  
Just before dinner, Madam Pomfrey arranged for the boys'  
dinners to be brought up. The dark-haired girl entered a bit  
later, laden with a book bag and three trays, two balanced  
on her hands and one floating just in front of her. The  
trays she carried she set down before each boy and the third  
she took to her now-customary chair.  
  
As she turned away from Ron, he coughed slightly and asked,  
"What's your name?"  
  
Pivoting back to look at him, the enigmatic girl said,  
"Dulcinea. Didn't the rumor mills mention it?" Ron squirmed  
uncomfortably.  
  
"Just Dulcinea? Don't you have a last name to go with that,  
Mudblood?" Draco taunted.  
  
"You're pretty cocky for a bedridden wretch, Pureblood. Just  
to show that I can be perfectly fair and civil, my last name  
is Mackintosh. And if you really have a brain in that head  
of yours, you won't question me further." Draco glared at  
her back as she marched across the room.  
  
  
  
Ron and Draco were only in the infirmary overnight, but  
charcoal-eyed Dulcinea swiftly became a permanent accessory  
to the sickroom. If she wasn't in class, asleep in bed, or,  
occasionally, eating in the Great Hall, she could be found  
in her comfortable chair doing homework or just watching the  
gentle rise and fall of her friend's slow, steady breathing.  
Madam Pomfrey soon found that she could count on Dulcinea to  
pitch in whenever she needed help in return for the  
uncomplaining, unobtrusive extended visiting hours the girl  
enjoyed.  
  
The in-class head-buttings between Draco and Dulcinea  
continued stubbornly, until the professors had to forcefully  
separate them to opposite sides of the room. The result of  
this move was that, while Draco ended up with his fellow  
Slytherins in most classes, Dulcinea was placed in the midst  
of the Gryffindors during Potions. It seemed that Professor  
Snape had devised a way of punishing her for beating on his  
favorite student. Seated next to Harry Potter, she tried not  
to yawn too obviously as Snape droned on about a new color-  
change potion and made cracks about various Gryffindors. It  
didn't take a genius to figure out that Snape kept his most-  
hated students in a clump near the front on the Gryffindor  
side. Dulcinea was the only Slytherin ever to gain such a  
place.  
  
Finding herself to be nodding off, Dulcinea jerked her head  
up and willed herself to pay attention, promising herself a  
nap during next free period, which was right after this one.  
The gimmick worked and she squeaked through the class with  
her dignity still intact against the almost constant barrage  
of Snape's abuse. Somehow, she dragged herself to the  
dungeons and into her dorm, half-heartedly dodging cat-calls  
and jibes until she collapsed, exhausted, onto her bed.  
  
As Dulcinea awoke she realized just how messed up her life  
had become, that she had let herself develop a single-  
minded preoccupation with Switch. She mentally slapped  
herself, checked the magic-powered clock, and bolted out of  
bed and into the hall so as not to miss dinner completely.  
She resisted the urge to eat in the infirmary and  
determindly set her tray down at the end of the Slytherin  
table. Although this odd behavior sent a slight ripple  
through the table, Dulcinea's notoriety had slacked off some  
after losing a verbal battle with Malfoy, who seemed to be  
learning - finally-how to hold his own against his current  
rival, and her housemates could now bear her prescence in  
silence.  
  
But here and there among the disdainful aloofness, a tiny  
spark of resentment and disillusionment was kindled.  
Dulcinea knew that there were some who agreed with her and  
wished Malfoy would grow up and stop making Slytherin House  
look like a bunch of inconsiderate, dimwitted, cowardly  
jerks who hung on his every word. Dulcinea herself knew of a  
lot of people who didn't fit that description, and who found  
it insulting. She actually wondered how some of them had  
ever been Sorted into Slytherin in the first place. Although  
it would be practically blasphemy to say it, a few of those  
in question could be considered Gryffindor material - bold, chivalrous, and moronically selfless. She grinned to herself at the thought of the looks on their faces if she were to tell them that.  
  
Unable to shake the habit and constant knot of worry that  
she had developed, Dulcinea found herself checking up on her  
best friend for a moment before rushing off the Divination.  
His icy blue eyes were closed in deep sleep, and the shock  
of hair which he had so carefully dyed a bleached-blond kind  
of color was beginning to grow out. His shoulder was newly  
rebandaged and looked to be healing. Dulcinea gave him a  
last, fond look and swept out before Madam Pomfrey could  
object. She had to jog to make it to Divination on time.  
  
Skidding in just before the bell, Dulcinea took an empty  
seat near the back and fell into almost a trance to the low,  
lilting cadence of Professor Trelawney's dramatic monologue  
on basic palmistry. She only snapped out of it when the  
professor broke into a businesslike tone and began assigning  
partners for practice. Hatefully, Draco and Dulcinea were  
paired together due to Trelawney's resolute conviction that  
any two people could work out their differences under calm,  
normal conditions. Her theory was about to be tested to its  
limits.  
  
"Give me your hand," Draco instructed. Dulcinea complied  
cautiously, wary of any foul play on Malfoy's part.  
  
"Wow, look at this." Draco exclaimed, to all appearances  
sincere. "Your head line and your heart line are almost  
parallel. And your life line is deep and long." As if his  
point was devastatingly clear, Malfoy leaned back in his  
chair and let her hand drop. When the blank look on  
Dulcinea's face became a confused one, Draco explained  
slowly, as if to a small child, "You're cold and  
calculating. Taken directly, your head rules your heart and  
your life will be long. And that's just the three main  
lines. Didn't you pay any attention at all, Mudblood?"  
Malfoy snickered.  
  
Swallowing her pride for the sake of her grade, Dulcinea  
gulped. "No. Show me." She didn't meet his eyes and added  
quickly, sarcastically, "O Great Divinator."  
  
Suddenly gracious in victory, Draco explained away. Dulcinea  
was amazed at the extent of what he knew. Professor  
Trelawney couldn't possibly have covered all this, she  
thought, scribbling notes. He finished briefing her just  
before the bell and she had just enough time to tuck away  
her notes and say, "Thanks, Malfoy," before she swept out of  
the room in an attempt to make it to Charms, on the far side  
of the castle, prior to the beginning of class; if Professor  
Flitwick caught her coming in late again she'd have  
detention.  
  
  
  
Ron started a fight with Draco the next day during a  
Quidditch game between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Ravenclaw  
was ahead by a hundred and fifty points and the Gryffindor  
team was scrambling to catch up.  
  
Suddenly: "Hey, Malfoy, what are you doing here?" Ron called  
insolently.  
  
"Checking out the competition - not that you could call it  
that." Malfoy yelled back.  
  
"Ron," Hermione hissed, snatching at Ron's arm to keep him  
from jumping up and landing himself in the infirmary -  
again. "Just calm down. He's trying to get you to start the  
fight; don't give in!"  
  
"But that's Harry he just insulted! How am I supposed to  
just sit by and do nothing when he's slandering my best  
friend? Your best friend. Doesn't it make your blood boil?"  
While Hermoine tried to think of something to say to take  
Ron's blood off the burner, she slackened her grip slightly  
and he pulled away, striding down the bleachers to where  
Malfoy was standing, arms crossed and a smug look on his  
face.  
  
"So good of you to join me, Weasley," Malfoy said  
pleasantly. "It's always nice to see the little people up  
close sometimes."  
  
Ron snorted. "Little people? You're not so tall yourself,  
Malfoy. Heck, Flitwick could beat you in a fair fight. And  
Snape - oof!" Malfoy brought his fist back from the blow he  
had delivered to Ron's stomach. Bent over, Ron had barely  
regained his breath when Malfoy gave him a sharp uppercut.  
He reeled back and then swung a strong smack to the shorter  
boy's shoulder and another to his jaw. They traded a few  
more blows before one of Ron's managed to drag him off-  
balance when Malfoy sidestepped it. Just at that moment,  
when Draco was winding up for another punch and Ron was  
trying to catch himself, someone stepped in and caught  
Malfoy's fist in one hand while righting the unsteady  
Weasley with the other.  
  
"Break it up, break it up. This is a Quidditch field, not a  
playground." Dulcinea admonished. "Malfoy, you started this.  
Go bother someone else." Draco glared at both Ron and  
Dulcinea, then stalked off when he remembered the speed with  
which she had caught his punch. Dulcinea turned to the  
remaining brawler and took him off to an unobtrusive niche  
near the edge of the bleachers. A cheer went up on the  
Gryffindor side and Ron craned his neck to see what had  
happened.  
  
"Hey," Dulcinea's voice brought him back to the situation at  
hand. "Don't let Malfoy get to you. He's just an ignorant,  
prejudiced, little twerp. Besides, you shouldn't let  
yourself be goaded into battles you can't win."  
  
"I can fight just fine," Ron protested indignantly. "I was  
doing great until you showed up." He turned on his heel to  
go.  
  
"No, you weren't. Your last punch threw you way off-balance  
and if Malfoy were any better a strategist, you'd be seeing  
a lot more of Madam Pomfrey in the next few days." He turned  
back full circle to look at Dulcinea. He wasn't stupid; she  
was right.  
  
"So what should I do about it? I mean, it's just fine for  
you to go off criticizing me, but do you have a remedy?"  
  
Eyeing the second-youngest Weasley speculatively, Dulcinea  
offered, "Meet me in an empty classroom on the third floor,  
near the hospital wing - room 406 - at nine o'clock tonight  
and I'll see what I can do." And she disappeared around the  
end of the row of bleachers.  
  
  
  
Ron didn't tell anyone about the peculiar proposition he had  
gotten from Dulcinea. After all, she was Slytherin, and he  
didn't want anyone to know that he had even spoken with her,  
let alone received an offer like that. Not that he really  
knew what it was for, but it gave him a sort of shiver.  
Thinking rationally later that evening, Ron tried to deduce  
the strange girl's intentions and whether they were for good  
or ill. On the one had, she had broken up a fight just when  
it seemed things would turn against him, and she didn't seem  
to be a favorite in her own house. But on the other hand, a  
Slytherin was a Slytherin, and just because she was  
currently not winning any popularity contests didn't change  
the fact that she was Sorted into that house for a reason.  
Besides, it could be an elaborate plan to make a fool out of  
him. If he didn't show, however, and it wasn't a fraud but  
actually something he could use, would Dulcinea think less  
of him? Much as the question confused him, Ron forced  
himself to answer it. Probably. He didn't know that much  
about her, he realized. Thoroughly bewildered, he remained  
staring into the fire until Harry tapped his shoulder  
lightly. "Are you going to bed or what?"  
  
"I'll be there soon. Don't bother waiting up for me."  
  
When the room had cleared, he made a split-second decision  
and went out the portrait hole. It was a long way from  
Gryffindor tower to room 406, and Ron got lost twice before  
he found the nondescript wooden door. With heartfelt  
misgivings, he cracked the door and peeked in.  
  
Inside he discovered a medium-large room. It was almost  
bereft of furniture, except for a wooden bench on one wall.  
A few small windows adorned another wall.  
  
"You sure took your time, didn't you?" Ron jumped at the  
voice. Somehow he had failed to register Dulcinea,  
stretching against a wall.  
  
"Why am I here?" Ron asked.  
  
"Your legs brought you."  
  
"I mean, why did you offer to meet me here?"  
  
"You can't fight."  
  
"And how are you supposed to help?"  
  
"I'll teach you. That is, if you want to be taught."  
  
"Taught what? And don't give any more circular answers."  
  
"Whatever you'll learn. Mostly streetfighting, kickboxing,  
strategizing, and how to avoid fighting."  
  
"Wait a minute. How to avoid fighting? You're going to teach  
me all that, just so that I won't use it? That's just -"  
  
"Do you want to be remembered as the kid who was always  
picking fights with everyone? As a bully? You learn what you  
must to hold your own, and then hope you don't need it. If  
you are going to try out new manuevers on Malfoy, then just  
leave right now." She turned back to her stretching  
exercises and let Ron choose unhindered.  
  
Ron really didn't want to be there. He felt way out of  
place, and none of this seemed very real. He was perfectly  
ready to just walk out the door and forget the whole strange  
episode. But he didn't. He stayed right where he was.  
Surprisingly, Ron somehow wanted to please Dulcinea, and he  
knew that if he went through that door he would never have  
her respect again. And so he stayed.  
  
"Still here? Well, then, let's get down to business."  
Dulcinea gave him a quick once-over and shook her head. "You  
can't move in those clothes. Tunicam Mutat!" Suddenly, Ron  
was wearing a loose, belted white tunic and matching pants.  
Dulcinea's costume was the same. "That's a Japanese gi. Even  
though we're not doing martial arts specifically, it's great  
for practicing in." She led Ron to the middle of the room.  
"We'll start with some basics. Stand like this; no, move  
your foot over a bit - that's it. Are you balanced? Good.  
Now, try this ..."  
  
Though he couldn't fathom why, Ron returned every night to  
study streetfighting with Dulcinea, and became increasingly  
better with practice. Harry and Hermione noticed many almost  
imperceptible changes in the way he held himself, the way he  
moved, but didn't comment - which is not to say that they  
didn't wonder what was going on.  
  
  
  
Grumbling, Draco entered the infirmary to serve his  
detention for turning Neville Longbottom into a squirrel. He  
marched to Madam Pomfrey's office and was assigned to  
cleaning bedpans, the healer's least favorite duty. He had  
collected half of them before he noticed Dulcinea sitting in  
her chair, eating lunch. "Hey, Mudblood," he demanded. "How  
long have you been here?"  
  
"Longer than you have," she replied around a bite of her  
sandwich.  
  
"Oh, of course," Malfoy sneered. "Eating lunch with your  
little boyfriend. He's probably the only company you've got.  
Eh, Mudblood?"  
  
Dulcinea carefully put down her sandwich and stood up, to  
all appearances cool as a cucumber, but her narrowed eyes  
and clenched fist belayed that. "Don't speak of things you  
know nothing about."  
  
Realizing that he had nettled the unshakeable Dulcinea,  
Malfoy pursued the subject. "Enlighten me, O Companion of  
Coma Patients. What is it that you know and I don't? Where  
does he come from? Which House does he belong to? Who is he?  
Your father?" he smirked.  
  
"That's pathetic, Pureblood." Dulcinea scoffed, regaining  
her self-control. "I had hoped you could do better than  
that."  
  
"You still haven't answered me, Mudblood," Malfoy persisted.  
  
"No, and I won't, because you're not worth it, *Pureblood*,"  
she stretched out the last word until it sounded like a  
disgusting, malicious insult. "You are scum. And unless you  
realize that, you're going to continue being scum for the  
rest of your life. Goodbye, Pureblood." Dulcinea grabbed her  
tray and stormed out of the infirmary, leaving Malfoy  
standing in the middle of the room, laden with bedpans and a  
lopsided, doubtful grin spread over his face.  
  
  
  
"Oof!"  
  
"You should have been able to block that." Dulcinea chided.  
"Try it again." It was the eighth time in an hour that she  
had said that.  
  
The two adopted a practiced stance and Dulcinea nodded to  
begin. Ron came at her, fists up, and aimed a high kick at  
her face. She leaned out of the way, grabbed his foot as it  
whizzed past and pulled it toward her, dragging Ron off-  
balance. He immediately grounded his foot and leapt back  
awkwardly for a chance to regain his equilibrium. Dulcinea  
pursued and threw a good punch into his stomach. But halfway  
there it was knocked away and replaced by a right cross  
going the other way. Dulcinea whistled for a halt.  
  
"That was well done, Weasley." They had been sparring and  
drilling for over an hour, and both of their breaths were  
coming in gasps. "Break."  
  
Ron dropped onto the bench without a single vestige of grace  
and gulped down a swallow of water which he conjured on the  
spot. Dulcinea collapsed spread-eagle on the floor. A  
friendly, panting silence fell while Ron wiped the sweat  
from his forehead and Dulcinea rubbed her bruised jaw.  
  
"You okay?" Ron asked, concerned. "You don't seem to have  
been quite yourself lately."  
  
"What are you talking about? I'm fine." She didn't move to  
look at Ron as she spoke; it wasn't her way.  
  
"Well, you've seemed kind of distant the last day or so. And  
I haven't seen much of you during the day. Have you been  
retreating to the Batcave or something?" Ron joked, trying  
to elicit a grin from his flattened tutor. Dulcinea, in  
addition to the lessons in fighting, had given Ron an  
unintentional crash course in American Muggle pop culture,  
a hobby of hers. He was fascinated by her descriptions of television, soap operas, heavy metal, and "The National Enquirer."  
  
"No. The Batcave's in Gotham City. Way across the pond."  
  
"The hospital wing?" he asked gently, knowing that he was  
treading on a sensitive subject. Dulcinea stiffened, then  
sighed and slackened her muscles.  
  
"Yeah." she whispered, suddenly tired. Her guard, so long  
upkept and painstakingly maintained, began to crumble under  
its own weight.  
  
"Visiting that boy - the one in the coma?" Ron continued  
quietly. Dulcinea flinched at the word "coma".  
  
"Yeah." she repeated.  
  
"What's his name? Who is he? You don't have to say  
anything," he amended hastily. It was strange talking to  
Dulcinea with hardly any barrier between them, and even  
stranger talking to her about anything so personal as this.  
  
Dulcinea hesitated. "No personal questions, Weasley," she  
growled, standing up again. "Break's over."  
  
  
  
"Ron." Hermione said, in a voice that made him look up. She  
was flanked by Harry. "Ron, what's going on? What aren't you  
telling us?"  
  
It had been a month since Ron had started his training with  
Dulcinea, and his friends were wondering about the changes  
they saw in him.  
  
"What are you guys talking about?" Ron asked dumbly, a tiny  
knot of fear lodging itself in his chest.  
  
"Ron, we know something's up. And we'd like you to trust us  
enough to tell us what it is," Harry added sensitively.  
  
"Nothing's going on," Ron lied, hating himself for it.  
  
"Ron, you can tell us. We're your friends." Hermione  
repeated, sticking sharp knife in Ron's heart; it just  
killed him to have to lie to his best friends!  
  
"Why would you think I haven't told you something?" Ron  
stalled, trying to come up with a credible lie.  
  
"Oh, just little things, mostly." Hermione confessed. "You  
just act a little more - I don't know - distant? And you  
don't slouch as much, or get quite as mad when Malfoy starts  
one of his tirades. That was probably the most obvious," she  
grinned.  
  
"Is it a girl? C'mon, buddy, spill the beans," Harry smiled,  
trying to lighten the mood. Ron flinched a little. "So it is  
a girl! Who?"  
  
"Uh," he stalled, wracking his brain for a suitable name.  
"Lavender Brown," he said at last, hoping it sounded  
plausible, and added quickly, "Don't tell anyone."  
  
Harry winked. "Don't worry, Ron. Your secret's safe with  
me."  
  
"And me," Hermione added, crossing her heart.  
  
As they walked away, Ron let out a long, pent-up breath and  
felt like sinking into the chair, never to be seen again.  
  
That night, he focused all his frustration into mastering a  
difficult new move that Dulcinea had been helping him with,  
and was able to do it flawlessly for the first time.  
  
  
  
It was a week later during another nightly lesson with  
Dulcinea, when they were taking a water-break, that Ron  
asked, "Why are you doing this?"  
  
"Doing what? Would you rather I didn't let you have a  
breather?"  
  
"No, not that. This," he said, gesturing to enfold the whole  
room. "Why are you helping me? For that matter, why do you  
always go against Malfoy and Snape and all the other  
Slytherins? Why bother with any of us?"  
  
Dulcinea had been avoiding his gaze, but she looked at him  
sharply at his last question. "Because you're better than  
you think you are. And because you obviously can't figure  
that out on your own, I'm trying to give your ego a  
jumpstart."  
  
"But why bother in the first place? Why not just let us come  
to our own conclusions? And why would you make yourself an  
outcast in the process?"  
  
Dulcinea shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a sucker for a pity  
case."  
  
"That doesn't explain why you're helping me, in particular."  
  
"Simple logic. You are an enemy's enemy, which makes you a  
friend by default." Neither said anything for a while, and  
when the silence had grown thick and awkward, Dulcinea stood  
up and said, "C'mon, Weasley, back to the salt mines. I want  
to see that kick again..."  
  
  
  
Between all of the distracting things going on in her life,  
not to mention the late nights, it was no wonder Dulcinea  
found herself constantly nodding off in Divination from  
sheer exhaustion. The energy levels in the classroom were  
practically tangible, and seemed to suck the awareness out  
of her. Professor Trelawney had made their new partners  
permanent, and it was a good thing. Between Draco's seeming  
expertise in the field and Dulcinea's knowledge of  
shorthand, she could catch up quickly, and get on with the  
lesson. Even though she hated having to get the notes from  
someone else, especially Draco, Dulcinea had to admit that  
the blond boy could be civil sometimes, though it didn't  
hurt that he was showing off.  
  
Draco was just finishing up on the new palmistry technique  
they had learned when Professor Trelawney appeared at their  
table.  
  
"Please come with me," she said frostily.  
  
Not daring to look at each other, the two partners stood and  
followed their professor to the back of the room and past a  
dark, velvety curtain, into her office. Trelawney motioned  
them onto a big, comfortable sofa which faced a large, oak  
desk piled high with papers and a crystal ball and took a seat behind the desk.  
  
"I am well aware of the situation which has arisen between  
the two of you," she began, "and I do not appreciate it.  
Draco Malfoy, you should allow me to teach my class. I do  
not like it when a student takes that responsibility upon  
himself. And Dulcinea Mackintosh," her accent drew out the  
syllables haltingly, "you should try harder to pay attention  
in my class. You cannot always get the notes from your  
partner, and I would hate to see your marks begin to slip.  
Understood?" she asked, looking from one to the other over  
the rims of her glasses. Both nodded. "Dismissed. Tell the  
class that I will be out shortly to check their progress."  
  
As the two reappeared in the classroom, Dulcinea noticed a  
number of heads snap back to look at their partners' hands.  
  
"Professor Trelawney says she'll be out soon to check on you  
guys." Dulcinea announced, her voice carrying.  
  
"Why should we believe you, Gryffindor-lover?" Pansy  
Parkinson sneered.  
  
"Because I'm right, lipstick-tooth." Dulcinea shot back.  
Pansy pinked and discreetly checked her teeth in a pocket  
mirror.  
  
"But why -"  
  
"Because the Mudblood's right, lame-brain. So you better try  
to find some meaning in that hand before Trelawney gets out  
here." Draco retorted, forestalling the insolent returns.  
Draco and Dulcinea made their way by separate routes back to  
their table.  
  
  
  
"Get some power behind your punch! Pretend I'm Malfoy,"  
Dulcinea suggested. Ron knocked her off her feet with his  
fist. "Good one. Water break."  
  
As they slumped down on the bench, Ron asked, "Are you going  
to the Quidditch game tomorrow?"  
  
She shrugged. "Yeah."  
  
In hopes of taking her by surprise, Ron posed the same  
question he had a week before. "Who's the boy in the coma?"  
  
"Don't ask me again, Weasley," she warned, giving Ron a  
piercing look.  
  
The rest of the lesson passed in a sweaty, jabbing blur, and  
by the end Ron just wanted to fall back into his four-poster  
and sleep till noon the next day. Dulcinea was forced to cut  
the session a little short when he threw a punch, missed her  
by a foot, and went flying.  
  
"Hey, Weasley, let's call it a day, huh?" She gave him a  
hand up and made sure he didn't get lost on the way to the  
portrait of the Fat Lady, who was asleep and had to be  
prodded awake before Ron could mutter the password to her.  
  
Just as Ron was closing the portrait hole, Dulcinea  
murmured, so low he almost missed it, "Switch. His name's  
Switch," but when he turned back to ask about it, the  
enigmatic Slytherin had disappeared.  
  
  
  
The Quidditch match crept up too slowly, in Draco's opinion.  
He had been itching for flight since the moment he woke up,  
but the game wasn't until afternoon. The classes may as well  
have been slugs for all the speed they exhibited. Even  
Divination, his favorite class, was only one of a dozen  
slimy blobs.  
  
Draco ate lunch slowly in an attempt to keep his nerves at  
bay, and it seemed to work. His afternoon classes showed  
much more speed than the morning ones and before he knew it,  
Draco was marching into the locker room. Marcus Flint was in  
a bloodthirsty mood, and Draco paid close attention to his  
"pep" talk, although it could just as well be called a  
"threat" talk.  
  
"Now listen up, all of you." Flint scowled. "You had better  
win this game. If you don't, the House Cup goes to those  
gutless Gryffindors. And we don't want that," he cracked his  
knuckles menacingly, "do we? I don't want your best on that  
field; I've seen your best, and it's not good enough. I want  
whatever you have to give on that field, just so we win the  
Cup. Understood?" Swift nods circulated. "Good. Go out there  
and kick some Gryffindor ass. Malfoy! Don't catch that damn  
Snitch unless we're twenty points up, got it? Otherwise the  
Cup's a lost cause."  
  
"Got it, Flint." Draco nodded and sketched a mock-salute  
before trotting out to the sidelines with his Nimbus Two-  
Thousand-and-One. Flint crushed hands with the Gryffindor  
captain - Wood - and Madam Hooch blew the whistle and let  
loose the balls. Lee Jordan kept up a running commentary as  
usual.  
  
"Angelina Johnson with the Quaffle, she passes it to Katie  
Bell. Katie takes it upfield, she shoots it, dodges a  
Bludger and - TEN POINTS TO GRYFFINDOR!"  
  
Draco cursed quietly and kept one eye on Potter while the  
other scoured the field for the elusive Snitch. He couldn't  
let Potter see it.  
  
"Alicia Spinnet with the Quaffle, taking it downfield...No,  
intercepted by a Slytherin Chaser...Slytherin with the  
Quaffle, heading upfield...He shoots - BLOCK IT, WOOD!" The  
Chaser feinted right. Oliver Wood shot over to deflect it,  
but the Chaser dodged left and easily made the basket. Lee  
Jordan cursed colorfully, to Professor McGonagall's outrage.  
"Ten points to Slytherin," Lee said glumly as the teams  
faced off again. A few Slytherins had to be forcefully  
quieted when they began shouting obscenities at the  
commentator.  
  
"Slytherin has the Quaffle, a pass - interception by  
Angelina Johnson! Angelina with the Quaffle, flying along  
the sideline, she's winding up for a pass...LOOK OUT!" Lee  
shouted, just as a Bludger zoomed out of nowhere and  
violently knocked the Quaffle out of her hand. "The Quaffle  
is falling...into Slytherin hands," he moaned. "Slytherin with  
the Quaffle, flying right down the center of the field. FRED  
WEASLEY IS HIT BY A BLUDGER!" The redheaded boy was rubbing  
his side, a grimace of pain on his face, but he ignored any  
offer of help, took a good grip on his bat, and chased after  
the Bludger that had hit him, knocking it into a Slytherin.  
"That's the spirit, Fred! And -" he swore loudly. "Ten  
points to Slytherin. The score is Gryffindor ten, Slytherin  
twenty. Come on, Gryffindor!"  
  
High in the sky, Draco was still scanning the field. One  
more Slytherin goal and he would really be on the job.  
Suddenly, something tiny and gold flashed near the ground.  
The Snitch! He thought. But what if Potter sees it? Quick as  
a flash, Draco swooped under the Firebolt and made for the  
Slytherin goal, away from the Snitch. Harry followed, trying  
to see what Draco did. The ruse worked, and Malfoy was just  
about to resume his high-flying vigil when Lee Jordan's  
voice rang out. "Slytherin goal. Gryffindor ten, Slytherin  
thirty."  
  
Draco was gone before Lee had finished announcing the score.  
Twenty points up, and the Snitch was still, by some miracle,  
in the same place it had been before Draco had led Harry on  
the wild goose chase. Before anyone could say "Quidditch,"  
the Slytherin Seeker was streaking to the other end of the  
field, arm outstretched. However, when Harry tried to turn  
and follow, his robes caught on his foot, and he lost his  
balance. To the fans' dismay, the Gryffindor Seeker was  
tangled in his robes, hanging onto his broom with a hand and  
a leg.  
  
Draco turned around at just this moment to see what all the  
commotion was about. Potter's done it again, he thought,  
beginning to turn back around and snatch the Snitch. But he  
never did. Somewhere in his mind, he heard an echo of past  
conversation.  
  
"You are scum...And if you don't realize that now, you are  
going to continue to be scum for the rest of your life."  
  
As if in a dream, and without thinking about what he was  
doing, Draco made a hairpin turn and began to dart swiftly  
back to the Slytherin goal.  
  
"Damn you, Potter, I almost had the Snitch!" he said angrily  
when he was a yard away.  
  
"Move, Malfoy, else I'll fall on you!" Harry called down to  
him.  
  
"Don't try to be a hero, you brainless git. Can you get back  
onto your broom without killing yourself?"  
  
"What do you think I've been trying to do?" Harry snapped.  
"It doesn't work."  
  
Draco sighed imperceptibly. "Well, I guess you'll have to  
try to make it onto mine. On the count of three, jump."  
  
"You must be joking."  
  
"One."  
  
"This is insane!"  
  
"Two."  
  
"Damn it, you can't catch!"  
  
"Three!" Harry half jumped, half fell, toward Draco's  
waiting broom. And missed it. Draco's quick hand shot out  
and grabbed one of Harry's wrists, then the other.  
  
"Pull me up," Harry said through clenched teeth.  
  
"I can't. It'll overbalance the broom and we'll both fall.  
I'll try to take us down gently, but I can't promise  
anything."  
  
"Just so long as I don't hit with a splat."  
  
"I won't drop you on purpose if you shut up." Draco  
manuevered the broom with his knees and they sailed down  
smoothly. The second Harry's feet touched the ground, Draco  
let go and shot into the air, hoping for a glimpse of the  
Snitch. But his miracles seemed to have run out and the tiny  
gold ball was nowhere to be seen. Marcus Flint, however,  
was. Knowing he was doomed and that Flint would only be  
madder if he had to scream at someone flying in the air,  
Draco landed his Nimbus Two-Thousand-and-One in front of the  
irate captain.  
  
"What did you think you were doing?!" Flint yelled. "The  
Snitch was there! You saw it! Why didn't you catch it, you  
pitiful piece of lard?"  
  
"You stupid oaf," Draco retorted angrily. Whether or not he agreed with his own actions, he would not stand and be  
insulted. "You would rather I catch that idiot ball than  
save a boy's life. Great morals, mon capitan. Leave me alone  
and let me work my own way." He shouldered past Flint and  
mounted his broom.  
  
The game went on. The two teams traded goals evenly, and  
finally the score was Gryffindor fifty, Slytherin seventy.  
And both Seekers caught sight of the Snitch at the same  
time. Both dove, the Nimbus Two-Thousand-and-One racing to  
keep up with the Firebolt. The Slytherin shoved the  
Gryffindor out of the way at the last moment, stretched out  
his arm, and felt cool metal enclosed in his palm. He had  
caught the Snitch.  
  
The Slytherins went wild, and Draco was instantly forgiven  
by his entire House for the earlier episode.  
  
  
  
By lunch, the story had spread and grown in drama. The only  
thing missing from its retelling was the object of  
everyone's interest.  
  
Draco had retreated to his dorm directly from the Quidditch  
field. He breezed through the almost empty common room and  
slammed the door. He didn't come out.  
  
An hour later, a tall, blond man strode through the room,  
following Draco's path. He wore an irate expression and  
didn't notice the girl sitting at a table near the wall  
doing her homework. He slammed the boys' dorm door after  
him. A moment later, Dulcinea heard muffled yelling,  
followed by a pause in which Draco must have been offering  
his defense. Then the yelling resumed. Lucius Malfoy hadn't  
approved of his son's defense, and seemed to be launching  
into his second wind when a boy's - Draco's - voice raised  
itself, an octave too high, in some sort of justification,  
but was interrupted by a sharp, resounding slap. Their  
voices lowered, Draco's disappeared completely, and Dulcinea  
heard only a faint sort of buzz through the walls. After a  
minute, Lucius shut the door and left without another word.  
  
Despite herself, Dulcinea felt guilty enough for her  
inaction that when Draco hadn't come out by dinner, she  
stood and walked slowly to the boys' dorm.  
  
Dulcinea knocked lightly on the door. No one answered, so  
she opened it quietly. There was a boy-shaped lump in one of  
the beds, and a few tufts of blond hair stuck out from under  
the bedspread Draco had pulled up over his head.  
  
She called, "Dinner's starting." A muffled answer came from  
the bed which might have been, "I'm not hungry." Drawn by  
curiosity, Dulcinea walked into the room, shutting the door  
behind her. "What's wrong?" she asked awkwardly.  
  
"Nothing. I'm fine. Go away," came the slightly more  
intelligible reply. Instead of leaving, Dulcinea walked to  
the foot of the bed and stood there.  
  
"I'm not going anywhere until I get some answers. Why don't  
you want to come to dinner?" she interrogated.  
  
"I'm not hungry," the bedridden voice repeated.  
  
"Sure you're not," she said knowledgeably. After a pause,  
she added, "Can you at least let me see your face? It's not  
easy talking to a disembodied voice, you know." Nothing  
happened. Dulcinea was going to repeat herself when the  
blanket inched down to reveal a pathetic face. A large,  
angry red mark adorned his cheek and he had a bloody gash  
across his cheekbone where Lucius' seal ring must have hit.  
Dulcinea bit her tongue to keep from reacting too severely.  
  
"If you must know," muttered the beaten apparition, "it was  
my fault. I got him mad, and I should be smart enough by now  
to keep quiet." He winced, then added, "But that doesn't  
make it hurt any less."  
  
Dulcinea had been at a loss for words, but Draco's statement  
brought her back into action. Telling him to wait a moment,  
she retreived a cold, damp washcloth from the bathroom and  
instructed Draco to put it over his face. The boy complied,  
and the pain lessened. "Thanks," he mumbled.  
  
An awkward silence followed during which neither one knew  
what to say. Finally Dulcinea broke it. She sighed a little.  
"I'm no good at this kind of thing. Talking, I mean," she  
added with a sideways glance at Malfoy. "What happened?"  
Dulcinea risked meeting Draco's gaze. He looked away first.  
  
"My father." Draco said despairingly, speaking in a flat  
voice. "He heard about the Quidditch game and came all the  
way here just to tell me how disappointed he was with me,  
that because I saved Potter I'm traitor to Slytherin House.  
That because of me every Slytherin who ever lived is embarrassed to show his face, and Salazar himself is rolling over in his grave. And I talked back..." he trailed off, pressing the cloth against his face to hide his shaking hands.  
  
They were both silent for a time, Draco lost in his  
miserable thoughts and Dulcinea embarrassed for both of  
them. Malfoy broke the stillness abruptly. "He hit me."  
Dulcinea looked up. "I told him I thought he was  
overreacting and he slapped me. Hard." Draco wasn't meeting  
Dulcinea's glance. There were tears in his gray eyes which  
threatened to spill over. "He said if I ever talked back to  
him again, that slap would seem like nothing. And he said,  
'You know I hate having to hit you, Draco. Why do you make  
me do it?' That's the way he is; he nevers means anything he  
says...." Draco trailed off and fell silent, leaning back on  
the bed. The silence lasted so long that Dulcinea sat up  
straighter to see his face. He had fallen asleep, exhausted.  
Dulcinea smiled sadly. He looked pathetic and helpless and  
abused.  
  
She walked out of the room, quietly closing the door behind  
her.  
  
  
  
Draco Malfoy was in classes the next day with a bandage on  
his cheek. When asked why it was there, he told the  
questioner off harshly. No one else bothered him until  
Divination.  
  
Divination had become a class when students either relaxed  
and had a little fun or tensed up under the strain of taking  
a "lame-duck" course - a course which had no actual  
practicable value, but one on which they were tested anyway.  
Draco almost seemed more at home in Trelawney's tower than  
in the Slytherin dungeons, while the incense fumes made  
Dulcinea sick to her stomach. Despite the wall-shaking party  
in her guts, Dulcinea actually managed to stay awake and  
take notes on Professor Trelawney's expoundings on the finer  
points of reading the mounds on palms. Afterward, during  
their practicing, she found that she was getting fairly  
familiar with Malfoy's hand.  
  
"This," she said, pointing, "is your powers of persuasion -  
really nice. You have lots of ambition, good money sense,  
and the pride of a whole platoon of cheerleaders. But what's  
this? Pureblood - you have a heart!" Draco's pale face grew  
even paler in anger, until he noticed the friendly smile on  
Dulcinea's face. Slowly, his face gained some color and his  
lips curved into a smile of their own.  
  
Some things can't be done alone, and some can't be done  
without any residual amnesty evaporating. A Lucius Malfoy  
recovery is both.  
  
  
  
Ron phenominally learned fast, and about the beginning of April, a few days before Easter break, Dulcinea's apparently unlimited supply of knowledge of the fighting arts ran dry. "There's no more I can teach you," she shrugged, sitting down on the bench. "You know everything I do. If you like, though, you can come by any night and practice."  
  
"You're kidding." Ron said with dismay, taking a seat next  
to her. "You're not kidding." After a pause, he sighed  
lightly and asked, "Now what?"  
  
"Like I said, come in for practice anytime you want," she  
shrugged. "Or you can catch up on all the sleep you've  
missed."  
  
A small half-smile lit upon Ron's lips for a moment, though  
he couldn't say why. It was almost dreamlike, this whole  
scene, and he couldn't imagine actually going to bed on time  
after all these late nights being beaten up by a girl -  
though he had learned enough to give as good as he got. But  
something else was niggling at his mind, some other feeling,  
one not so easily named. He almost had it, but it began  
slipping away. Ron mentally snagged the feeling and brought  
it into the light. As he saw it for what it was, Ron's heart  
skipped a beat.  
  
"I love you."  
  
The words were past his lips before he had even thought them  
in his mind, and the dreamlike quality thickened as Ron saw  
Dulcinea look at him sharply. She was not a classic beauty,  
but was striking in her appearance. Dark hair, highlighted  
with a chestnut hue in the moonlight that fell through the  
open window. Her eyes were a dark gray, like charcoal, and  
held depths heretofore unplumbed. But close to the surface  
was something he had never seen before, not on this face.  
Ron watched her lips move as she spoke.  
  
"Love is a strong word. Don't say anything you don't mean."  
  
"I know. I mean it." Ron looked into her eyes once more,  
baring his soul to them. "I don't think I knew it until  
just now, though, but it's been here for so long that it  
must have begun the first day I really saw you. Remember,  
that day in Potions when you first stood up to Malfoy? I  
think a tiny spark was kindled then." As he spoke the last  
word, his mind put a name to that something in her eyes.  
Fear. But what could she be afraid of? He thought, puzzled.  
Surely not me?  
  
Ron didn't get a chance to ask her about it, because  
Dulcinea stood up then and walked out the door, shoving him  
away when he tried to stop her. His last glimpse was of her  
back receding quickly into the darkness of Hogwarts in the  
middle of the night as she ran away.  
  
  
  
She threw herself onto her bed, curled into a ball, and  
shook. Just shook. No no no no no no no no no no! Her head  
pounded, and her lips moved without sound as she mouthed the  
chant that went through her mind. I don't, I don't, I don't,  
I don't love him! Never never never again! Oh, damn, what a  
mess I've gotten myself into. Switch, I could really use a  
little help right now. Why'd you have to get yourself stuck  
in a coma?!  
  
She sobbed wetly, quietly, into her pillow.  
  
  
  
Tears streamed down his face, and he let them. No one would  
behold his weakness in the middle of the night with the  
curtains closed around his bed.  
  
Don't waste your tears, a nasty little voice sneered. She  
hates you. Scum, she said. Don't bother wishing, it could  
never have been anything anyway, not with a Mudblood. If you  
thought yesterday was bad, it would be multiplied a  
hundredfold when he heard about *that* scandal.  
  
And he knew it was true, but he also knew his heart and her  
eyes. Was it merely a trick of the light, the emotion he had  
glimpsed when she smiled at him? It was for her that he had  
practically forfeited the House Cup, and for her that he had  
won it anyway. He knew he could change if he had her to  
stand by him, but he wasn't hoping for much, and it was  
better to keep his heart locked up tight than to give it  
away to another and say, "Here, take my heart. Break it."  
No, that was madness. He would retain his heart, make sure  
it stayed in one piece. That was the only thing he could do.  
  
Wasn't it?  
  
  
  
Harry still couldn't meet Malfoy's eyes at breakfast, two  
days after the Quidditch game. He was embarrassed for any of  
a number of reasons: not having been able to keep his seat  
on the his Firebolt while doing a simple about-face, being  
rescued by Malfoy, of all people, losing the game and,  
subsequently, the House Cup. It was the second that really  
irked him, but losing the Cup was depressing too. Why  
Malfoy? Why couldn't one of the Weasley twins have been  
there, or anyone else. Even another Slytherin would have  
been preferable. He found it simply amazing that the little  
weasel hadn't come over yet to gloat. Perhaps he was going  
to today. One look at the Slytherin table, however,  
forstalled any other thoughts along those lines. The  
Slytherin Seeker was hunched over his eggs, brooding over  
something. Harry wondered what it could be, then wondered if  
it was him. As if to confirm his suspicions, Malfoy looked  
up directly at Harry and frowned before turning back to his  
breakfast. Harry filed this away for later thought, then  
turned to his friends. Hermione was nose-deep in a book,  
putting the final touches on a History of Magic essay that  
wasn't due for another three days. Knowing the response he  
would receive if he tried to interrupt her work, Harry  
turned to Ron for conversation. Just in time to keep him  
from falling face-first into his scrambled eggs.  
  
His friend looked at him blearily and mumbled his thanks,  
then pushed the plate out of his way, folded his arms on the  
table, and went to sleep.  
  
Harry looked around for a companion, but he was at the end  
of the table and surrounded by slumbering and studying  
people.  
  
Suddenly, one of the huge doors to the Great Hall banged  
open, hitting the doorjamb with a thump and waking Ron.  
  
Dulcinea stormed through the opening, snatched three muffins  
from the Slytherin table, and stormed out. The door slammed  
behind her.  
  
"Something's got her riled," Harry commented, trying to  
start up a conversation with his newly awakened friend. But  
Ron just stared at the door, his expression hurt and angry  
at the same time.  
  
Without meaning to, Harry's gaze fell on Malfoy. The other  
boy's face was wistful and dejected. Full of mixed-up  
thoughts, Harry stared at his plate, where no more mysteries  
could possibly arise.  
  
  
  
Divination was a difficult task, in far more ways than one.  
Draco tried to keep his feelings bottled up, and Dulcinea  
was just striving to pass the pop quiz Professor Trelawney  
had just discharged on her unsuspecting class. She was going  
through the room one by one and choosing a random line or  
mound for examination by the other partner.  
  
It took forever for her to come to their desk. "Dulcinea,  
tell be about...the heart line," she decided. Draco's heart  
thumped painfully as he held out his hand for inspection,  
willing it to be steady. Dulcinea gingerly took it and  
traced the heart line, obviously wanting to make sure she  
was exactly correct before she spoke.  
  
"It's thin, long, and deep. That means that Pureblood here  
is unswerving and true in love, that he doesn't make  
commitments on a whim. And when he does give his heart away,  
it's for keeps."  
  
Draco's stomach did a somersault. That was him, exactly. He tuned back into the real world just in time to hear Professor Trelawney's voice telling him which mound to read. He held Dulcinea's hand in his and tried to concentrate on the lump of flesh in question. It was the one that was supposed to predict purpose in life, and Dulcinea's had interested him, from a purely academic standpoint, since he'd first read it.  
  
"A heartbreaker," he summed up simply, watching Trelawney  
write down his grade instead of meeting Dulcinea's eyes. He  
forgot that he was still holding her hand until she  
carefully withdrew it and began fiddling with her quill.  
Both of them were nervous and ill-at-ease, and the bell at  
the end of class was a blessing.  
  
  
  
Just as difficult for Dulcinea was Potions. Professor Snape  
still kept her tucked away among the Gryffindors, and this  
was far too close to Ron for comfort. She sat directly  
behind him, next to Harry Potter, and could practically  
count his pores, they were that close. She managed to feign  
indifference while watching him at the same time. His red  
hair was disheveled and his robes were a tight fit, making  
it easy to see that he was well-muscled and broad-shouldered for all his youthful appearance. Dulcinea found that she could call up his face before her inner eye without any difficulty, and wondered again what her mind wasn't telling her. She saw the Weasley red hair, beautiful coffee-colored eyes, and freckles splashed across his nose and cheeks. A carefree, fun-loving face, but one which could become clouded and serious in the blink of an eye.  
  
Superimposed over Ron's face, and just as easily conjured  
up, came her one-time rival's delicate features. Completely  
the opposite of blunt, sweet Ron, Draco was pale, thin, and  
sharp. His face was like a diluted watercolor, but with more  
clarity. Once described as "pasty-faced," Draco had put that  
crude description to shame. He was pale as a vampire, with  
white-blond hair and dove-gray eyes. His overall expression  
was shrewd, cunning, and faintly elven. Where Ron's jaw was  
squared bluffly, Draco's came to a devilish point. They were  
totally at odds with each other in every way, and Dulcinea  
was torn.  
  
The second Potions was over, she darted out the door and  
away from the other Slytherins and the Gryffindors - two in  
particular - and raced to the hospital wing. She fell into  
her chair and watched Switch's breathing while she tried to  
sort out her heart.  
  
  
  
Draco was feeling heartsick and frustrated, and the mix made  
him quick-tempered and volatile. He prowled the grounds like  
a panther on the hunt, looking for a fight. The fight came  
to him.  
  
Ron, deep in thought, bumped head-on into Malfoy.  
  
"Watch it," Draco snapped.  
  
"Maybe I wouldn't trip over you if you were taller,  
shortstuff," Ron retorted.  
  
Draco gasped. "Why, Weasley, what would your mommy say if  
she heard you? That's sure to start a fight, and she  
wouldn't be able to pay the medical bill if anything  
happened to you."  
  
Under different circumstances, Ron could have walked away  
with dignity. But not today; today he had caught Dulcinea  
looking at Malfoy with stars in her eyes, and it tore him  
apart. He was being handed a perfect opportunity for revenge  
on a silver platter, and he seized it with both hands.  
  
His first punch was clumsy, and Malfoy landed one on his  
arm. For awhile, the Slytherin seemed to be winning, but  
Dulcinea's training had not fallen on deaf ears. The nights  
of practice and drills had instilled in Ron certain fighting  
instincts, and these kicked in quickly. While he was still  
reeling from an unexpected jab, Ron grabbed Malfoy's shirt  
collar and dragged him to the ground. He had the upper hand,  
and used it well. Draco took some serious punishment in  
Ron's first sally, but after that he managed to hold his own  
to some extent. It wasn't until Ron had him pinned to the  
ground and growled, "Stay away from her," that Draco really  
noticed that the redhead was much more aggresive than usual.  
  
"Who?" he asked.  
  
"What do you mean, 'who?'" Ron said angrily, panting.  
"Dulcinea, who else would it be? Let her alone, Malfoy.  
She's mine."  
  
Draco's face became snow white in a mixture of fury and  
shock. "What are you talking about, you overgrown lout?  
She's not yours to claim."  
  
"I suppose you think you love her." Ron's voice had risen a  
notch in volume, and Draco could see he was trying hard to  
resist the urge to punch him.  
  
Carefully keeping eye contact with Ron, Draco's gray eyes  
softened as he proclaimed, "I do love her." Ron's face  
looked shell-shocked as he let Draco up.  
  
"But I do too," he said mournfully.  
  
Something clicked in Draco's mind, and he leapt to his feet,  
catlike, breaking into a fast walk toward the front entrance  
of the school. He knew what he had to do.  
  
"Where are you going?" Ron called.  
  
"I have to find Dulcinea," he said over his shoulder,  
speeding to a run. He careened through the halls, looking  
for her. She wasn't in the Slytherin commons, and she wasn't  
in any classes. He was beginning to despair when it hit him.  
The hospital wing. Cursing himself for a fool, Draco  
sprinted back the way he'd come and skidded to halt at the  
infirmary doors. He opened one and looked in.  
  
There was Dulcinea, in her usual place, staring at the same  
strange boy. He coughed to let her know he was there and  
closed the door behind him. She seemed to brace herself,  
gripping the armrests until her knuckles were white. Draco  
walked around the boy's bed until he was across from her,  
his footsteps sounding far too loud in the empty room.  
  
"Dulcinea," he began, the words rushing out in a torrent, "I  
know we haven't really gotten along very well this year,  
but, for what it's worth, I'm sorry." Dulcinea's death-grip  
on the chair lessened, and she looked up to Draco's face,  
her eyes compelling and sorrowful. He continued quakily,  
shaken by that raw emotion. "I'm sorry I called you a  
Mudblood, and I'm sorry I wouldn't leave you alone, and I'm  
sorry I had to wait this long to say it. Thank you for  
helping me out when I needed it, and I owe you one. Anything  
you need, just tell me."  
  
Dulcinea seemed to brace herself. "Then spit it out. In  
perfect honesty, tell me exactly why you came here. I know  
it wasn't just to apologize," she added. She knew what she  
would hear, and she hoped she could take it without tears.  
She drew herself up as Draco started to answer. Her question  
seemed to have knocked him a bit, but he hadn't taken advantage of the chair behind him yet, so she knew it wasn't too bad.  
  
He finally took a deep breath, looked her in the eyes, and  
said softly, "Dulcinea, I love you. I have since I don't  
know when, but I haven't been able to admit it until just  
recently, even to myself. I know I'm probably wasting my  
time," he added hastily, "but I just thought that - Oh, I  
don't know! Maybe you'd say I'm not, or even that I am,  
because not knowing is ripping me apart!" he sank into the  
chair at last and buried his face in his hands.  
  
That's just what Weasley said, she thought abstractly.  
"You're not wasting your time," Dulcinea's voice whispered  
aloud. "I'll prove it. Room 406 at nine o'clock." But when  
Draco looked up, she had left. He sat there for a long time,  
watching the coma boy's expressionless face.  
  
  
  
Ron came again for practice that evening, though tenatively. He had been skipping practice since...that night. He didn't know how Dulcinea would react, and he almost wished that he had held his tongue and not told her how he felt. Things suddenly seemed so complicated with the utterance of three simple words. Oddly enough, Dulcinea wasn't there when he arrived.  
  
He waited for a few minutes, then began stretching out and  
warming up. He was practicing his accuracy with a punching  
bag Dulcinea had taught him to transfigure from a beanbag,  
when the door opened. Ron turned, expecting Dulcinea, but  
found himself face-to-face with...Malfoy?!  
  
"What are you doing here?" Ron asked, too surprised to be  
angry.  
  
"I was about to ask you the same thing, Weasel. Dulcinea  
told me to meet her here." Draco also seemed a bit miffed.  
  
"What are you talking about, Malfoy? As if Dulcinea could  
stand you," Ron scoffed.  
  
"Look who's talking, Weasel. You're not exactly Mr.  
Congeniality yourself."  
  
Ron opened his mouth to argue, but at that moment the door  
opened once more and this time Dulcinea stepped through.  
Suddenly, Ron wanted to say so many things at once, that he  
couldn't say any of them. Draco, on the other hand, was a  
bit more fluent, if not exactly poetic.  
  
"What the hell's going on?" the Slytherin said pointedly,  
obviously not having lost his edge for being lovestruck.  
  
"It's a simply complicated scenario," Dulcinea began calmly,  
but both boys noticed the telltale clenching of her fist.  
She wasn't feeling nearly as relaxed as she let on. "It's  
called a love triangle. See, both of you say you love me -"  
she faltered a little on the word 'love' "- and, well, I  
guess I love both of you back. Equally." She gave them each  
a long, hard stare, as if to drive her point home by pure  
force if nothing else. "I love you, Pureblood." The name  
seemed nothing more than a pet name now. "And I love you,  
Weasley. And I can't choose between you. I can't. Love is a  
strong word, but it matches how I feel. I don't know what to  
do about it." Her fist unclenched, and Dulcinea just looked  
at them, open to ideas. It was a long time before anyone  
spoke.  
  
"Weasley," Draco said finally, breaking one of the most  
uncomfortable - and active - silences in Hogwarts history. "You  
can have her."  
  
"What are you talking about?" Ron asked apprehensively.  
  
"I mean I'm withdrawing from the race. I still love you, as  
much as ever," Draco explained to Dulcinea, his eyes  
pleading and yet hardened. "But you could never be happy  
with both of us, and I'm just not your type. Besides,  
Weasley needs you more than I do."  
  
Ron said gruffly, "Thanks, Malfoy. Only I can't -" But they  
never found out what Ron couldn't do, because Draco left  
almost as soon as he had finished speaking. Dulcinea sat a  
moment longer, yawned, and said she was going to bed. Such a  
mundane statement didn't seem to fit in with the rest of the  
scene, but Ron's head was already swimming and it didn't  
make much difference to him anyway.  
  
  
  
The next morning, Draco woke slowly. He'd had an odd dream,  
but he couldn't remember it now. He shivered. For some  
reason, he'd fallen asleep on top of his covers, and hadn't  
changed out of the clothes he had worn yesterday. Why - and  
then he remembered. Dulcinea...Weasley..."I love you,  
Pureblood"..."You can have her"...almost flying through the  
halls in his haste...collapsing on the bed...  
  
He didn't notice for a moment or two the tiny roll of  
parchment he held in his hand. He didn't remember that.  
Curious, he flattened it out and read it.  
  
Pureblood-  
  
That was noble. Chivalry is not quite dead, it seems. I  
applaud it and love you all the more for it. However, I  
can't let you do it. If you love me that much, it would kill  
me for you to have to pretend you felt nothing while I rode  
off into the sunset with one of your worst enemies. That is  
why I've left. Don't bother trying to overtake me, because I  
won't tell you where I've gone or how I'm traveling. I hate  
to leave you, Pureblood, but I have to. Take care of Switch  
for me. Try to understand; sometimes you have to be cruel to  
be kind.  
  
I love you,  
Dulcinea  
  
Draco was dumbstruck. It took him a few minutes to digest  
the contents of the note, but once it had sunk in, action  
followed. He dug under his bed until he found his Nimbus Two-Thousand-and-One, went to the window and opened it, then  
flew out into the cool dawn air.  
  
She couldn't have gotten too far, he reasoned, if she'd only  
left last night. If she had gone by air, she would have had to take one of the school brooms, which were Cleansweep 5's, easily outstripped by any Nimbus. There was, of course, her tremendous head start, but Draco was obstinate. He would find her, even if it took him a week, or a month.  
  
Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. He didn't believe  
it. He would find her and somehow things would turn out for  
the best. At least, that's what he told himself.  
  
  
finis  
  
Author's Note: Constructive criticism is appreciated, but  
flames double as rat bedding. FYI: I never meant it to be  
romance, honest. It was supposed to end with a shoot-out-  
type fight between Ron and Draco, but took an interesting  
twist. I apologize now for any mischaracterization. Check out my website: http://flamingweasels.com  
  
Disclaimer: All characters, places, things, and the basic  
Harry Potter concept are (c) JK Rowling, Bloomsbury, etc.  
However, Dulcinea Mackintosh and Switch are mine, as of 7  
June 2000. I also claim the spell 'Tunicam Mutat'. No  
copyright infringement is intended. Don't sue. Rock on.  



End file.
